they walk on my grave
and I ain’t even cold yet
fuck them all to hell

Trapper squinted against the glare of the midday sun as he pulled his truck and horse trailer into the dusty lot of the heifer roping jackpot. Two days on the road had left him weary, but the prospect of roping alongside fellow cowboys rejuvenated his spirits.

Parking beside a weathered Chevy truck and trailer, he unloaded his horses, the routine motions easing his tired muscles. As Trapper cleared out the last remnants of manure from his trailer, a seasoned cowboy approached on horseback.

Leroy extended a hand in greeting, offering to partner up for the day’s event, though he did not dismount.

Leroy extended a hand in greeting, offering to partner up for the day’s event, though he did not dismount.

“Nice to meet ya, son,” Leroy said with a nod, his voice weathered like the landscape around them.

Grateful for the friendly gesture, Trapper hesitated momentarily before accepting Leroy’s offer.

“Sure thing, Leroy,” he replied with a grin. “I’ve heard you’re steady, and that’s just what I need today.”

With Leroy as his heeler, Trapper found hisself riding alongside a man whose quiet confidence belied his age. Together, they roped and swapped stories, forming a camaraderie that transcended the competition.

“You know, Trapper,” Leroy said as they waited for their turn in the chute, “It ain’t always about winning. Sometimes, it’s just about enjoying the ride.”

Trapper nodded in agreement, admiring Leroy’s perspective.

“You’re right, Leroy. It’s the time spent with folks who understand the language of the rope that really counts.”

As the day wore on, Trapper and Leroy found themselves in contention for the top spot, surprising the younger, faster ropers who had underestimated them.

“Looks like we’re holding our own, Leroy,” Trapper remarked with a grin, wiping sweat from his brow after a successful run.

Leroy chuckled, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “Not bad for a couple of old-timers, huh?”

Despite a minor hiccup in the final go-round, their teamwork and determination earned them a well-deserved victory. As they accepted their buckles and prize money, Trapper couldn’t help but notice the gleam in Leroy’s eyes as he admired the shiny new hardware.

“Looks good on you, Leroy,” Trapper said, clapping him on the back.

Leroy grinned, his weathered face creasing with joy.

“You too, Trapper. Here’s to many more rides together.”

In the following years, Trapper returned to the roping, occasionally teaming up with Leroy when he was available. Their friendship deepened with each encounter, with Trapper treasuring the wisdom and companionship of Leroy.

When Leroy passed away, Trapper attended his funeral, touched to see Leroy’s legacy honored with a heartfelt epitaph on his gravestone.

“He’s Stead and Rides for the Lord.”

Standing by Leroy’s final resting place, Trapper reflected on the lessons learned and the enduring impact of their brief but meaningful partnership.

“You were right, Leroy,” Trapper whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “It was never just about winning. It was about the journey, the camaraderie, and the memories we shared. Rest easy, old friend. You’ll always ride with me.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “I’m too damned busy working because of Biden’s economy to celebrate Labor Day.”

It has been at least 20 years since I got my wife drunk on Tuaca. We both had hangovers the following morning, but hers was worse than mine because she is not a drinker.

We polished off the entire bottle of liquor, one shot at a time, before finally turning in at around 3 a.m. Honestly, a drunk sleep is like no sleep at all.

Hunger pangs got the better of her around 11:30 a.m. She decided on toast for her late morning breakfast.

She slipped two pieces of bread in the slots and pressed down. She must have forgotten or was half in a daze when the machine kicked the toast up with a pop less than a minute later.

I cannot recall the last time I heard her scream so loud.

While I try never to take anything for granted, gospel truth (other than the Gospels) or random gossip, I did find myself intrigued by what others have to say about someone else in this small community called Virginia City.

For instance, no less than two people told me that Alexia Sober was playing host to a “Red meeting,” complete with vodka. Knowing Alexia as I do, it did not make sense as I know she would not dabble in Communism willingly or without purpose.

So I decided to find out by having breakfast at the Canvas Cafe and asking a few non-invasive questions. And after what I learned, I shall return in a couple of months or however long it might take to sample the homemade vodka that her boyfriend, Kyle Blanchard, is fermenting out of red potato peels.

Senator Joe McCarthy shouts, “Have you now or have you ever been…intoxicated?!”

“Yes, sir,” I yell back. “In fact, I still am!”

My Cousin Elmo says, “I’m a ten, but on the pH scale.”

When I first met Tina, she wore a beautiful Victorian-style gown with a corset and bustle underneath. I know this because I asked, which is not being rude as Virginia City reenactors want and like such notice.

Tina is her real name, but I only knew her reenactor name, Trixie. Out of costume, makeup, and character, I sometimes don’t realize I’ve already met them.

One early morning Tina stopped by the Sugarloaf Motel to pick up a pack of Marlboros from the mart there. There were four of us sitting around a picnic table conversing.

She took a seat, making it five. I did not recognize her, so I introduced myself.

Shaking my hand, she said, “We’ve met before on the boardwalk. I’m Tina, but most people call me Mudbutt.”

I could not help but develop a wide grin before asking, “Really?”

“Yup,” Tina answered.

“How did you get that?”

“It was given to me in high school after a game of ‘telephone.”

The game of ‘Telephone’ involves creating a message, like a short sentence, and whispering it into the ear of a participant until it returns to the original sender. In this case, the sender was Tina.

“What was the original message?”

“I have a beer gut.”

We roared with laughter.

It began as an innocuous posting on social media about an 1872 Nevada-California boundary marker made of cast iron near Verdi, Nev., being added to the National Register of Historic Places on Aug. 27, 1981. Things quickly spun out of control as someone replied, “‘Cast Iron Obelisk’ for when you want something durable, cheap, and ominous.”

Then the boundary appeared on the Secure, Contain, Protect (SCP) Foundation’s Web-based project:

• SCP 18721981 is to be under armed guard and electronic surveillance. Due to SCP 18721981’s nature, it may be necessary from time to time to detain tourists lured into its minimum safe zone.

• Do not look away from SCP 18721981 as it may suddenly accelerate to unsafe speeds. And if you begin to hear strange sounds while in the vicinity, try retuning your dental fillings to a different wavelength.

• SCP 18721981 contains a liquid core. If a rupture should occur, do not touch, inhale, or otherwise view. If contact occurs, telephone the SCP Help line at 1-800-666-6666. Please press 2 for Español.

• Use as directed as it may cause side effects. Do not use SCP 18721981 if you are pregnant or under 12. Ask your doctor if SCP 18721981 is right for you.

• Do not place fingers or objects inside SCP 18721981 cage. Do not attempt to feed SCP 18721981. Do not taunt SCP 18721981. If SCP 18721981 assumes the voice of a loved one, do not listen.

• The SCP 18721981 may stick to certain types of skin. If SCP 18721981 begins to smoke, get away immediately. 

• Do not look away from SCP 18721981, as it may suddenly accelerate to unsafe speeds. And if you begin to hear strange sounds while in the vicinity, try retuning your dental fillings to a different wavelength. 

• Ask your parents before using SCP 18721981 as it may cause priapism. If you experience an erection over four hours, call your doctor.

• Only valid at the Nevada-California border. Do not use SCP 18721981 near other states as it does not play well with others.

• Some restrictions apply. SCP 18721981 comes with a lifetime warranty.

Finally, some erstwhile traveler reported, “SCP 18721981 is along the old Emigrant Trail & Lincoln Highway, uncaged and living its best life near a picnic table.”

He was what they were looking for in a subject. His deoxyribonucleic acid was perfect, and he had withstood the various probes they had put him through in their last three visits.

For his part, he believed he had been suffering from nightmares. It was the last time, with the full-body paralysis and blue-green lights, that he understood they were not.

Once on board the intergalactic craft, they released him from his immobility, allowing him access to much of the ship. His willful eagerness surprised them.

They did not understand that they had unleashed a serial killer into their midsts.

My Cousin Elmo says, “The last time I had any faith in the News, it was Huey Lewis.”